


An awful lot of trouble

by irisdouglasiana



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Multi, alfred: whiz kid, bjorn: is done, but he kind of likes it, harald: hates you all, heahmund getting batted around like a pingpong ball, hvitserk: hanging in there for some reason, ivar: gold medal in the petty olympics, lagertha: has seen it all, the seer: the gods have not revealed your exact itinerary, ubbe: so done he's not even in the story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-03-14 06:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13583850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisdouglasiana/pseuds/irisdouglasiana
Summary: “Tell me, your Grace, have you ever been on the winning side of a battle? Truly remarkable.”It really is the last person on earth Heahmund wants to see as he gradually slides back into consciousness. God’s plan for him must be very strange indeed.





	1. Tolerable on occasion

**Author's Note:**

> AU, if Heahmund was captured by Ivar at the end of 5x10.

“Tell me, your Grace, have you ever been on the winning side of a battle? Truly remarkable.”

It really is the last person on earth Heahmund wants to see as he gradually slides back into consciousness. His vision is fuzzy and he blinks a few times until the mad Northman comes into focus. “Don’t call me that,” he mumbles. His head hurts tremendously and he vaguely remembers the end of the battle; he heard Bjorn calling for them to retreat, and so he had pulled his sword out of the heathen he had just run through and turned to follow, and then he felt a blow to the back of his head and everything went dark. They must have believed him dead and left him behind.

Ivar yanks on the chain around his neck and chokes him into silence. “You must have made a poor bargain with your god. A great warrior who always loses battles. I have half a mind to send you back to Lagertha, so you can take your curse with you.”

“By all means,” Heahmund groans, even though it earns him a second yank.

“What I _should_ do is kill you. ‘Oh, I am the one, Ivar, you can believe in me,’” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “Now I have my answer. Maybe I’ll crucify you; wouldn’t that be fun?”

Heahmund smiles slightly. They both know he won’t beg.

“But I’m not going to do that. Yet.” Ivar pats Heahmund’s cheek, and then he drags his legs around and begins to crawl away. “I am keeping the sword, your Grace,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’re not getting it back this time.”

**

Ivar plainly enjoys the trappings of being king, and not so much the mundane details of actual ruling. Heahmund, still in chains, watches from the corner of the great hall as Ivar fidgets on his throne and toys with his knife while Hvitserk—who either has infinite patience, or is infinitely foolish, because it is hard to imagine who else would want such a thankless task—once again explains the financial difficulties Kattegat is in. It seems that when Lagertha and Bjorn and Ubbe fled, they took their gold with them, and now some of the various earls and kings that joined the great heathen army are calling in the promises that Ivar and his brothers made.

“This is stupid,” Ivar complains. “The arrangement suited us at the time, and now it is over. We cannot pay them. The earls will just have to accept that.”

Hvitserk rubs his forehead. “If it were you, would you accept it?”

Obviously not, but Ivar is too proud to admit it. He sighs deeply and shifts his weight, staring off into the distance.

“Ivar, if we do not hold up our end of the deal, they may very well decide to join forces and attack us, and we are not yet in a strong enough position—”

“I take your point. Give me some suggestions, then. Good ones.”

Hvitserk glances over at Heahmund. “Ransom the priest back to the Saxons, to begin with.”

“No.”

Hvitserk raises his voice. “How much do you think King Alfred will pay to have you back, Bishop?”

Heahmund tells them, and watches Ivar’s expression turn thoughtful. “Hm.”

**

God’s plan for him must be very strange indeed, Heahmund thinks as he walks across the field towards Alfred’s men. He half expects to receive an arrow in his back, but no, the ransom is paid in full; the Northmen will not linger. He struggles to keep his expression impassive when he sees Lagertha and Bjorn and Ubbe at Alfred’s side, but he kneels and thanks his monarch first. It seems that an alliance has formed while he was captive: Alfred has negotiated an agreement over the disputed territory of East Anglia and allowed them to settle the land. Rather too generous to the Northmen, Heahmund thinks, but that is not up to him.

And it does gladden him to see Lagertha once more. He ignores Bjorn and Ubbe rolling their eyes—apparently a family trait—and rides alongside her back to camp.

“What am I supposed to do with you, Heahmund?” Lagertha sighs later, kissing his cheek in the dark. “You are an awful lot of trouble.”

“More trouble than I’m worth?”

She smiles tiredly. Losing Kattegat has taken its toll on her, but it hasn’t extinguished her spark. “Never more than you’re worth.”

**

“Walk with me, Bishop Heahmund,” Alfred says, and of course Heahmund must obey. “You should see the settlement.” He leads the priest down the dirt path marking the main road through the settlement, pausing as children dart in front of them, chasing after chickens and ducks. The Northmen turn to watch Alfred and Heahmund as they pass and then return to their work. The new town is still being constructed, and the air is filled with the sound of hammering and sawing, and the clang of the blacksmith making new tools.

“I know you do not approve,” Alfred says quietly.

“It is your decision, your Majesty. But I beg you to remember that they are heathens, and it would not be wise to trust them.”

Alfred takes him by the arm. “I understand your caution, but the world is changing, your Grace. It is not as small as it once was, and we must all adapt. If these Northmen are willing—and I believe they are—I am hopeful we can learn to live together, somehow.”

Even a few months ago, Heahmund would have scoffed at that. But something is different now. He sees Lagertha working with a young woman to erect a fence, and she gives them a nod as they walk by.

“You were her captive,” Alfred notes shrewdly. “And then you fought for her. But it seems you were not coerced, and you bear no hard feelings against her.”

It occurs to Heahmund that Alfred’s youth has caused him to underestimate him, and it will not do to lie. “We grew…close,” he says cautiously.  

Alfred raises his eyebrows. “Do you love this pagan queen, your Grace? Are you becoming a Northman?”

“I serve God, and I serve you, my king. All else is vanity.”

“That is not what I asked.” Alfred leans forward, and for a moment, something in his posture reminds Heahmund of Ivar, as different as the two kings are. Then Alfred smiles, and the resemblance disappears. “I am only teasing. I know you have sworn vows, but I don’t think it would be wrong for you to love her, or anyone else. We like to believe we are free to choose when and how and who we love, yet sometimes we must be reminded of how little control we actually have.” They watch a boy and girl herd their sheep down the road, their parents following close behind. “We forget how much we truly need each other.”

**

The peace doesn’t last, of course. It seems that Ivar is not content to leave England alone, and he sends raiding parties up and down the coast. Heahmund had been concerned that the new king would be overly soft, and while Alfred is willing to make more compromises than his father or grandfather, he still has his limits. Alfred dispatches the bishop to defend the countryside and hunt the Northmen down. It thrills him to be back where he belongs, striking down heathens with a sword in his hand and the fury of the Lord in his heart. To be doing something unambiguous; something that doesn’t stir up confusing feelings.

Although they are mostly successful in fending off the Northmen, Heahmund’s luck cannot hold forever. In Dunwich, his men are lured into a trap when the Northmen feign a retreat, and his horse is shot out from under him. As he lies on the ground momentarily stunned, he feels the edge of the sword against his throat, and he says his final prayers and prepares to die.

But then the sword is pushed aside and he hears a familiar voice. “Wait,” Hvitserk sighs, rolling his eyes in resignation. “Ivar will want to see his Christian.”

And indeed he does: Ivar grins in delight when they drag Heahmund into the great hall in chains, getting up from his throne and taking a few halting steps down the stairs to greet the prisoner. He brushes the dirt from Heahmund’s tunic. “You again? This is a bad habit, priest.”

“I am aware.”

**

“If I ransom you to the Saxons a second time, perhaps I can ask for twice as much,” Ivar speculates. Although the Northmen are celebrating tonight, Ivar left early to sit with Heahmund in his cell. He even orders mead to be brought so the bishop can share some of the celebration, but Heahmund pointedly ignores the cup on the ground in front of him. “And then I can have you kidnapped and brought back, and ransom you again. Hvitserk is smarter than I thought.”

“And if my king is not willing to pay twice as much?”

Ivar looks down with a smile. “I still have the option of crucifying you. Obviously, I cannot trust you to fight on my behalf, so you are not very useful to me. First you swore to fight for Aethelwulf, and then you swore to fight for me, and then for Lagertha. Fickle priest. Your word does not mean much.”

“On the contrary. I meant it each time.”

“Each time!” Ivar repeats incredulously. “You broke your promises. It doesn’t matter how you felt about it, only that you did it. And to swear to Lagertha…”

Heahmund sighs. “I did not swear to her in order to spite you, Ivar. Not everything I do is about you.”

“What does it matter?” Ivar spits back. “Truly, what does it matter why you did it? That is another way we are different. Unlike you, I keep my promises. You know I have sworn to kill her, and therefore I will.”

“Yes, so I gathered.”

To his surprise, Ivar shakes his head and laughs, all his anger seeming to disappear at once. “I am glad to have you here,” he admits, almost shyly. “I thought it was a mistake to give you back.”

“Why?” Heahmund asks.

Ivar scoots closer and downs the cup of mead intended for Heahmund. He glances at the priest and shrugs. “If I release you from your chains, Bishop, what will you do? Will you kill me for Lagertha, or for your king, or for your god?” It is not a taunt. There is almost a note of exhaustion in his voice, and once again Heahmund finds himself wondering how Ivar the Boneless, the savage animal, can be the same man as the one who half-whispered in the dark, _I want to be like you, strong and whole_. But Heahmund himself is not always those things.

“Well,” Heahmund says slowly, “there’s only one way to know for sure.”

**

Ivar’s plan to re-ransom and then kidnap Heahmund from the Saxons never comes to fruition, but only because Lagertha has him kidnapped first. On the ship back to England, Bjorn rips the sack off Heahmund’s head, folds his hands together, and stares. “I don’t know why I do this,” Bjorn mutters, and Heahmund isn’t sure what to tell him, so he stares back until it becomes unbearably awkward and they both look away.

“Troublesome as always, my priest,” Lagertha says fondly, after Heahmund has eaten and rested and they are alone. Her expression turns pensive. “Tell me, how is Kattegat? I miss it terribly. What has Ivar done to my home?”

“Ivar has continued working on the fortifications, and they are building new ships. I expect he will not be content to only rule Kattegat. He enjoys being king.”

“Ah, well. So did I,” she says sadly, and turns away. “There is something else, isn’t there?”

Heahmund is silent.

Her eyes narrow. “Five months, you were in Kattegat. But you were not kept in chains the entire time, were you? You could have stolen a horse or a boat and returned to England. And yet you stayed. Why? What did Ivar offer you?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly.  

“Or did he…did you…? Oh. _Oh._ ”

Heahmund feels his face heating up. He swallows and says nothing.

Lagertha smiles triumphantly. “I asked you once if you loved men and women all the same, and you told me you loved women. But now that I think of it, you did not really answer my question. You did not say, ‘I love only women, and I do not love men.’ So let me ask you again.”

Heahmund closes his eyes. “I am a sinner in more ways than one. I pray that God will forgive me. I hope you will forgive me as well.”

Lagertha lifts his chin. She looks more amused than anything else. “I am not angry, Heahmund. While Ivar has caused me a great deal of pain—and, to be fair, I have caused him pain too—I suppose I can’t blame him for having good taste.”

Heahmund can’t help but laugh.

**

“I think you are turning Viking, Heahmund,” Ivar says over a game of chess. “You spend more time among us than your own people.”

“I am no heathen,” Heahmund denies, and makes his move. He finds himself back in Kattegat, acting as Alfred’s go-between, and God help him, but it is almost comforting to sail back to that familiar harbor and see Ivar’s red and black banners fluttering in the wind. It also feels good to not be returning in chains this time.

“Of course not. But you do seem to enjoy the company of heathens.” And then, grinning: “You enjoy _my_ company.”

“You can be tolerable on occasion,” he acknowledges.

“And do you enjoy Lagertha’s company?”

Heahmund detects the dangerous edge to Ivar’s voice, but he is not afraid. He has never been afraid of Ivar. “Are you jealous?”

“Maybe,” Ivar admits, but without much anger. It occurs to Heahmund that he seems more comfortable in his position now; that he’s grown in the past year since he took the throne. “I have never much liked to share, Heahmund. And to share with Lagertha…well, you know how I feel about her. But in your case, I might make an exception. You can enjoy her company in England, and enjoy my company here in Kattegat, and we shall all be happy.”

“You can’t be serious.”

But Ivar is always capable of surprising him. He checkmates Heahmund, spreads his hands, and laughs. “What can I say? We Vikings are generous people, after all.”


	2. Happiness is something

The sun has almost dropped below the horizon by the time Heahmund arrives at the settlement. It has grown since he saw it last, with the makeshift huts replaced by sturdy cabins, and the Northmen come out to watch him with more curiosity than hostility as he rides his horse down the main road. He turns off from the path when he sees the house on the left with the blue and red shield mounted above the doorway and the woman standing underneath.

“Bishop Heahmund,” Lagertha calls out to him with a smile. She gives the squirming toddler in her arms over to Torvi and puts her hands on her hips. “I was beginning to think that perhaps you intended to remain in Kattegat for good this time.”

He dismounts and ties his horse to the fence. “As long as I breathe, England will always be my home. I could never leave her for long.” And later, when Torvi has taken her children and left for the night, and it is just the two of them: “I did not wish to be away from you for too long, either. My heart is here,” he says, and kisses her hand.

Lagertha traces his lips with her fingertips. “Flatterer,” she teases. “You have your heart in two places, my priest.”

He can’t deny it. “There is no fooling you,” he says with a faint smile. The truth is that this is not the sort of situation he ever would have imagined himself in, and there are days when the weight of his many sins overwhelms him and he feels deeply ashamed. Sometimes he almost envies the heathens for their lack of guilt. And yet the more time passes, the more he finds he can live with himself.

She shakes her head. “Nevertheless, you have come back, and that pleases me indeed. I have been so busy building up the settlement that I have hardly had time to learn about what is happening in the rest of the world. But word did reach us that you had something of an adventure, and I hoped to hear about it from you.”   

“It is a rather long story.”

She shrugs and passes him a cup of mead. “We have all night.”

**

_If this is an interruption of their journey or a part of it, Heahmund can hardly say; either way, washing ashore on a strange land with Ivar after their ship had broken up during a fierce storm had not been in the plans. He coughs up seawater, says a quick prayer of thanks, and staggers to his feet and squints at the ocean. There is little to see except for a few pieces of the wreckage and the large chunk from the hull that he and Ivar had clung to. No sign of other survivors, no food, no water, and worst of all, his sword was lost in the storm._

_On the ground beside him, Ivar props himself up on his elbows and brushes the sand out of his hair. “It seems the gods have not favored us this time, Heahmund.”_

_“There is only—”_

_“—one god, yes, thank you, your Grace.”_

_There is nothing to do but leave the beach and start looking for signs of civilization, and so they set off into the forest, with Ivar crawling along behind Heahmund. The terrain is rough and uneven, and it soon becomes apparent to Heahmund that at their current pace they will be lucky to cover more than a mile by sundown. Finally, he drops to his knees and lets Ivar climb onto his back. The Northman smirks, and Heahmund has a sudden suspicion that Ivar has been deliberately moving slowly for this exact purpose—a suspicion that is confirmed when Ivar murmurs in his ear, “Took you long enough.”_

_“Or you could have asked at the beginning,” Heahmund points out, but Ivar says nothing to that. He does, however, have plenty of unsolicited opinions on other subjects that he is perfectly willing to talk about. At length._

Lagertha pours Heahmund another cup. “And what did you speak of?”

“Many things. We discussed the nature of good and evil, and the relationship between man and God.”

“I did not realize Ivar was so philosophical.”

“…Yes.”

_“What is sin?”_

_Heahmund stops to catch his breath. “Transgressions against God. Acts of wickedness.”_

_“You have a story—I have heard it before, something about a serpent and a woman.”_

_He keeps walking. “The devil in the guise of a serpent offered Eve the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, and she in turn gave it to Adam and they partook, therefore losing the grace of God for all mankind. And so God banished them forever from the Garden of Eden.”_

_“But what was wrong about what they did? Maybe they were hungry,” Ivar laughs. His tone turns contemplative. “I wonder if your serpent is the same as ours; the one who encircles Midgard and devours his own tail.”_

_It is blasphemy, of course, but what does Heahmund expect? “This is the serpent that your god Thor will battle when the world ends, is it not?”_

_Ivar sounds surprised. “You know a great deal about our gods.”_

_“In order to bring the heathen to the light of truth, one must first understand his ways.”_

_“Ah. Is_ that _what you call it?”_

“Mm. And what happened after that?” Lagertha asks.

_Ivar nips Heahmund’s ear and then starts to move down his neck. Heahmund stops in his tracks, kneels down, and shrugs Ivar off his back without a word._

_“Oh, fuck you, your Grace,” Ivar grumbles, repositioning himself on the ground._

_“Fuck me,” Heahmund deadpans._

Heahmund swallows the last of his mead without quite meeting Lagertha's eyes. “And…then we found the village.”

_“Let’s steal a fishing boat,” Ivar suggests from their hiding place in the undergrowth, watching the villagers pass by. The dock is several hundred feet away, and the boats are surrounded by men and women going about their business.  
_

_Heahmund shakes his head. “There are too many people around. We’ll have to wait until dark, and even then, it will be hard to avoid being seen.”_

_“Eh, not necessarily. I don’t want to wait that long; we just need a distraction.” He points in the direction of what appears to be the great hall, and his eyes light up. “We can set that on fire.”_

_“No.”_

_“All right, a different distraction,” Ivar relents. He glances up at Heahmund and gestures for him to bend down. “Look over there.”_

_As Heahmund obligingly starts to crouch down, Ivar suddenly gives him a hard shove and sends him crashing through the brush just a few feet in front of a pair of villagers. He smiles weakly at the startled man and woman, who already have their knives at his neck, and not for the first time, he rues the day he first laid eyes on the mad Northman who has turned his life so thoroughly upside down._

_Heahmund speaks three languages to varying degrees, none of which turn out to be intelligible to the villagers. After some lively discussion, they tie him up, drag him before their king, shove him in a cell, and leave him. He works at the knots for a few hours without success. Eventually, he gives up and leans against the wall to pray for deliverance and watch the sun set._

_He is close to dozing off when he smells something burning and hears men shouting outside. The door suddenly swings open and Ivar comes crawling in with his face and chest splattered with blood and a sack tied awkwardly over his shoulder. He pats Heahmund on the cheek. “Time to go, priest,” he says cheerfully. He cuts the ropes and gives Heahmund the sack. It is warm to the touch._

_“What is this? Where were you?”_

_“Look, I’ll show you in a little while, but we’re in a bit of a rush.” Then he adds somewhat grudgingly, “This will go faster if you carry me. Since that apparently isn't obvious.”_

_The villagers are too preoccupied with putting out the fire to even notice Heahmund running down to the dock with Ivar on his back. He gracelessly heaves Ivar over the side of the fishing boat, unties the ropes, jumps in, and they hurriedly start rowing away. Behind them, he hears the angry shouts of the villagers and the splash of arrows landing in the water, but they have enough of a head start that the villagers soon give up their pursuit._

_Once they’ve put enough distance between them and the village, Ivar hauls himself over to the stern, grabs the sack, and pulls out a whole roasted chicken. He tears off a drumstick and hands it to Heahmund. A peace offering of sorts._

“Where did the chicken come from?” Lagertha asks.

Heahmund pauses. “I thought it was better not to ask.”

“Fair enough.”

_Heahmund hasn’t eaten all day, and he wolfs it down. Still, it’s not quite enough to get him to forgive Ivar. “I should throw you overboard,” he threatens, once he’s eaten his fill._

_Ivar bares his teeth. “I’d like to see you try.” He leans back and crosses his arms. “Don’t be so upset; I came back for you, didn’t I?_

_“You needed my help to sail the boat, I presume.”_

_He shrugs. “If we want to get back to Kattegat, then yes.” After a beat: “You do know how to sail, don’t you?”_

_“No, why would I?” Heahmund has extensive training in theology and experience with sword fighting, the finer points of warfare, and denouncing heathen gods and heathenish ways and heathens in general, but he had never even been on a ship until Ivar had captured him the first time. Then it dawns on him. “You don’t know how to sail either.”_

_“Come now, how hard can it be?” Ivar seems to recognize that is not quite the reassurance the bishop was hoping to hear, and he grins and puts his hand over his heart. “Have some faith, Heahmund. You can believe in me.”_

_"Don't talk to me about faith." Putting his life in Ivar’s hands is not ideal, but the options are limited at this point. “How will we navigate? We don’t even know where we are.”_

_He points to the heavens. “We will follow the stars. Simple.”_

_“What if the clouds come in?”_

_“Well, your Grace,” Ivar says in a tone typically reserved for speaking to especially stupid children, “in that case, we shall be lost, and we will probably die of dehydration. Use your imagination.”_

_The fog rolls in. The wind dies down._

**

_The mist is so thick it is impossible to see more than a couple feet in front of them, so there is nothing to do but wait. Heahmund sits on the deck next to Ivar, closes his eyes, and prays. For once, Ivar doesn’t interrupt, and when Heahmund finishes, they lie there in comfortable silence._

_He must fall asleep at some point, because the next thing he hears is Ivar’s whoop of joy, and when he opens his eyes the clouds are gone, the sky is a deep and endless blue, and they can see the outline of Kattegat in the distance. He murmurs his thanks to God and looks to Ivar. “You look happy.”_

_There is a ghost of a smile on Ivar’s lips as he gazes across the horizon. “Happiness is nothing.”_

_“Do you truly believe that?”_

_He tilts his head and stares at the sky, lost in his thoughts. “It was something I was told a long time ago, and I have lived by it ever since. But there are many things I was certain of before that I am less sure of now. So I think…” Ivar turns to meet his companion’s steady gaze. Despite it all, Heahmund can always drown himself in those eyes. “Happiness is something.”_

**

They talk and talk and the night passes by before they know it. As the sky begins to lighten, turning from black to deepest blue to gray, Lagertha leads Heahmund outside to watch the stars disappear. He ends up watching her instead. There is a kind of peacefulness about her that he hasn’t seen before. “You seem happier now than when I left. Does this life suit you?”

She draws her knees up to her chest and gazes at the night sky. “I was a farmer before I was a queen. It was never an easy life, but it was a good one. If I cannot be queen, then it is only fitting that I should be a farmer once more.” She lowers her head and closes her eyes. “I am…I am learning how to be happy again. It is hard, sometimes, when you have lost so much.”

He takes her hand and runs his thumb along her palm, because the lives of men and women are short and full of sorrow. Yet there is joy as well to be found in moments and places like these, and the brevity of those moments only makes them sweeter, for who can say what tomorrow will bring?

Lagertha knows it too. She looks down and squeezes his hand. “But that is life. Sometimes the best we can do is begin again.”


	3. Theological complications

Sometime in the weeks after he and Ivar had taken Kattegat, Hvitserk had gone to visit the seer. “My heart is troubled, Wise One,” he had said. “Did I make the right choice by following Ivar?”

The seer grunted and rubbed his temples. “I do not know, Hvitserk, son of Ragnar. Leave me in peace.”

“But—”

“Asking whether you made the right choice is a matter of opinion. Now, questions of fate…those are questions I can answer, if the gods allow me to see.” He curled his lips into a smile. “And if I feel like answering.”

This was not a promising start, but he decided to press on anyway. “Then tell me my fate. What do the gods have planned for me?”

The seer stretched and yawned loudly. “I am very tired, and you have asked me many questions today.”

"Please?”

The seer’s shoulders shook and he made an odd huffing noise. It took Hvitserk a moment to realize he was laughing. “Very well. I have seen you on a journey with a great warrior. You passed together through the stomach of the whale.” Then he fell silent.

“Ah,” Hvitserk said after a lengthy pause. He leaned forward. “But is there…anything else? When will I leave on this journey? Where will I go? Who is the warrior? Am I going to die?”

“The gods have not revealed your exact itinerary.”

Hvitserk sighed. He supposed he deserved that.

The seer thrust out his arm, palm facing up, and chuckled. “I cannot say whether you made the right decision, but I can tell you this: your brother is mad. I am something of an expert on the subject. You know this. You’ve known for a long time. So if he is mad, and you follow him anyway, what does that make you?”

**

A fool was what it made him, he quickly determined.

“We should invade England again,” Ivar mentioned offhandedly over yet another interminable game of chess with the priest. “I want to go this summer.”

Under normal circumstances, Hvitserk would be entirely supportive of invading England, or invasions in general, but there were some logistical challenges to consider. He shifted in his seat and tried to think of a diplomatic way to put it. “The Great Army is scattered, and we lost many men in the war against Lagertha. And Lagertha and Bjorn will join their forces with King Alfred if we attack.”

Ivar raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“Your brother is correct,” the priest said suddenly. He calmly captured one of Ivar’s pieces. “You do not have sufficient numbers.”

Ivar shot the bishop an irritated look. “I can count,” he said testily. He reached for a piece, changed his mind, and made a different move. “Perhaps Harald will join us. Hvitserk, you must go and see if he will give us ships and men. You can leave tomorrow.”

Hvitserk blinked. “You will remain in Kattegat?”

“Naturally,” Ivar shrugged. “You succeeded at convincing Rollo to support us against Lagertha and Bjorn, and at any rate, I must protect my claim here. You are the only one I trust to negotiate on my behalf.”

Hvitserk almost spat out his ale. “You trust me? You held a knife to my throat,” he reminded Ivar. “Twice.”

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” his brother grumbled.

“You said you were sorry that I jumped ship!”

To his credit, Ivar looked momentarily sheepish, but only momentarily. “That was a long time ago.”

It hadn’t been _that_ long ago, but there was no use belaboring the point. The whole venture still seemed like a bad idea. “I think Harald is still angry over the loss of Astrid and Halfdan, and he’s more likely to kill me than offer up ships.”

“But you did not kill Astrid or Halfdan, so why would he seek revenge against you? No, I do not think Harald would do such a thing. He knows I would avenge you, dear brother.” Ivar’s gaze slid from Hvitserk to Heahmund. “Harald knows I keep my promises,” he said with a touch of malice before turning his attention back to Hvitserk.

“Yes, but—"

Ivar held up a hand, ending the conversation. “However, if you are concerned for your safety…” he grinned, and Hvitserk inwardly groaned. “Well, my brother, I have just the man for you.”

**

There were few things in life that Hvitserk was certain about anymore, but one thing that was beyond dispute was that Ivar’s pet Christian was the worst traveling companion he had ever had. The priest almost never spoke, except to pray and make occasional gloomy pronouncements to no one in particular, and when the group stopped at night and gathered around the fire to drink and tell stories, he would stare straight ahead with an unsettlingly blank expression. It unnerved more than a few of the other men, who would come and grumble to Hvitserk, who could do nothing about it except say something vague about how Ivar thought the Christian was a _great warrior_. (Which was true, whatever else was going on between this _great warrior_ and his younger brother. He certainly wasn’t about to ask Ivar for the details.)

But the reason why Ivar had insisted the priest join them was a puzzle to him too. The man’s undeniable prowess with a sword aside, Hvitserk failed to see what use the Christian could possibly be in these negotiations with Harald, who hadn’t much liked the man the first time around. “What skills do you have, priest?” Hvitserk asked one evening as they watered the horses, giving the man as friendly a smile as he could muster. “Other than praying,” he added quickly. “Please.”

The Christian stared at him. “I am a great warrior,” he said with a perfectly straight face, and that was it; Hvitserk was _positive_ the bishop was fucking with him, and it had to be Ivar’s fault somehow. All of this was Ivar’s fault, actually.

Things went from bad to worse when they reached their destination. The negotiations started off as well as Hvitserk had expected, which was to say not well at all, given that “tell me why I shouldn’t take all your heads” were the first words out of Harald’s mouth when they entered his hall. Harald had cut his braid and his beard had turned mostly gray since Hvitserk had last seem him. He was not at all pleased to see them.   

“Because our heads are not the one you truly want,” Hvitserk answered lightly, though he kept his hand close to his sword, just in case. He elicited a ghost of a smile from Harald, who settled back on his throne.

“True. I suppose that is why Ivar did not come himself.” There was a glint in his eye that Hvitserk did not care for. “If he were here, what do you think he would say if I asked him why I should not blame him for the deaths of my brother, my wife, and my unborn son?”

Hvitserk thought for a moment. He glanced up at the whale skeleton hanging from the ceiling and smiled. _The seer spoke truthfully._ “I think he would say that you supported him against Lagertha and Bjorn because of your own ambitions for Kattegat. Your brother Halfdan took up arms against you, and Queen Astrid made her own decision to fight. But that is in the past. Ivar wishes to invade England in the summer, and he asks if you will join him.”

“No,” Harald said sharply. “I should never have involved myself in your brothers’ affairs, and I will not be part of them now. It cost me dearly and left me no closer to fulfilling my dream to be king of all Norway.” He let out a short, mirthless laugh. “Perhaps that is a stupid ambition, eh? What do you think, Hvitserk? Your brother told me he had no interest in ruling Kattegat. He once asked me why the word ‘king’ made reasonable people behave like idiots. This was right before he became a king, of course.”

Hvitserk shook his head. That certainly sounded like Ivar. “I don’t think Ivar has ever been a reasonable person. He can be reasoned with, yes, but _reasonable_ …”

“Oh, I learned my lesson. Believe that.” Harald scratched the back of his head and was quiet for a few seconds. “Do not take this hard, Hvitserk; I have nothing against you. You interest me. You are older than Ivar, and whole, and yet you have supported his claim. Your loyalty to your brother—well, to one of your brothers—is commendable.”

 _Ah_ , Hvitserk thought, _here it comes…_

“But should you ever tire of being Ivar’s dog and you wish to be your own man, I welcome you to pledge your allegiance to me, and you will be richly rewarded. Your brother is a strong leader, to be sure, but he will never repay you for your loyalty.” Harald stepped down from his throne and clapped Hvitserk on the shoulder. “Think on it.”

 _Your brother wanted to be his own man, and you killed him._ He gave Harald a brief, noncommittal smile.

Harald paused and looked at the bishop, who had been watching silently from the side of the room the whole time with a perfectly blank face. “Why is the priest here?” Harald asked contemptuously. “What was the point of bringing him?”

Hvitserk shifted his weight from one foot to another. “He is a great—”

“Shut up. I’ll tell you why. He’s here because your brother sent him to spy on you. He is probably spying for the English too.” He threw back his head and laughed.

“That’s not true,” Hvitserk protested, but Harald had clearly scored a point, and it stung more than a little.

“No? Then why don’t you ask him?”

“I am here because I choose to be here,” the bishop said suddenly. “I am here out of my own free will.”

“If I put my sword through your belly right now, you could call it free will or fate, and it wouldn’t matter because you’d be dead either way,” Harald snapped.  

Even though Hvitserk himself wouldn’t have minded terribly if Harald decided to do just that, this really was not how he wanted to bring their negotiations to an end. “I will convey your message to my brother,” he said hastily as he grabbed the priest by the shoulder and ushered him out of the hall. It was like trying to move a stone statue, if the statue were wearing thirty pounds of chainmail and refused to shut up about Jesus Christ. They took the horses and didn’t stop riding until dark.

**

“Is it true?” Hvitserk asked on their journey back to Kattegat, bringing his horse up alongside the priest. “Did Ivar ask you to spy on me?”

The priest gave him a measured look. “As I said, I came because I wanted to. Your brother does not command me.”  

That wasn’t good enough. “Why are you here?” Hvitserk pressed. “You are not one of us and you never will be. Why do you not go back to your own people?”

The priest brought his horse to a stop and gazed up at the canopy. Then he urged the horse forward without another word. Hvitserk shook his head and followed, but he thought he understood. There was something about Ivar that drew people to him the way the moon drew the tides. Perhaps it was that Ivar was not afraid of the things that normally frightened men, or perhaps it was because Ivar had not been content to live out his life in their father’s shadow. Perhaps it was because he was mad. There had been a reason why Hvitserk had jumped ship. He hadn’t known he would make that choice until that moment he looked between his brothers and stepped from the boat to the shore, but it still meant something. Ivar promised fame and glory, and he had known that was what Hvitserk wanted. Maybe that was what the priest wanted too.

**

Mad or not, Ivar was none too perturbed by Harald’s refusal. “Ah, well. It is no great surprise,” he shrugged, pushing a cup of ale in Hvitserk’s direction. “Harald will come for Kattegat soon, so he would not want to waste his ships and warriors on England.”

“You knew he would tell us no,” Hvitserk accused.

“But nobody lost their heads, correct? And I didn’t know what he would say; I only suspected. How many ships did he have?”

“Nine,” the bishop said. Ivar looked from him to Hvitserk, and Hvitserk nodded in agreement. “Five of those were being repaired. He is building at least three more. I do not think he will attempt to attack Kattegat until next year, but he is still angry with you.”

Ivar nodded. “I think we shall wait to invade England so we may give Harald a good welcome.”

Although the priest’s expression did not change, Hvitserk saw his shoulders sag almost imperceptibly with relief. Ivar waved his hand and servants brought out plates of chicken and fish, loaves of warm bread, and bowls of stew. The priest immediately lowered his head and murmured a prayer. Ivar glanced at Hvitserk, shrugged, and they both started to eat.

“Who are they?” Ivar asked idly after the priest had finished praying and picked up his spoon. “The father, son, and holy ghost that you mentioned. Do you Christians have three gods? I thought you only worshipped one, as you have told us. Repeatedly.”

The priest set his spoon back down and fixed Ivar with his unnerving stare. “There is only one god, which consists of three divine persons. God the father of Jesus Christ, who was born of the Virgin Mary—"

“How can a virgin be a mother?” Hvitserk interrupted. “That is impossible.”

“See?” Ivar cut in triumphantly. “I told you.”

“It was a miracle,” the priest insisted.

This was not a satisfactory answer. “Well, what is a miracle?” Hvitserk asked.

“That which is impossible.”

This was still not satisfactory. Ivar impatiently tapped the table. “So if a thing is impossible, then it is a miracle…and if a thing is a miracle, then it is impossible?”

The priest paused for a moment. “Yes.”

Hvitserk exchanged an incredulous look with his brother. “Your religion is very strange, priest. You say there is a father and son, and these are not separate gods, but what about your holy ghost? One of your gods died?”

“No. Well, actually…there are some theological complications.”

Ivar snorted. “I am told we heathens are little more than beasts in the field, so you will have to use simple words to explain it to us. Short sentences are best.”

It was so quick he almost missed it, but Hvitserk thought he saw the corners of the priest’s mouth twitch upward ever so slightly. 


	4. Today you shall learn

“Oh good, you’ve arrived; now you can do something useful” are the first words out of Lagertha’s mouth when Heahmund arrives at the settlement. The minute he’s finished tying up his horse, she practically drags him out to the barley field to help with the harvest. He trails behind her, bemused, remembering the heathen queen he had first encountered on the battlefield cutting down her enemies, and here she is cutting down barley with a scythe. Her hair glows in the sunlight. She wipes beads of sweat from her forehead and gives him a contented smile. “Are you working, Bishop Heahmund, or simply watching me work?”

“I only paused to admire your technique,” he protests, but he does pick up the pace.

“Always with the sweet words, my priest,” she says as she ties up a bundle of grain and tosses it aside effortlessly. “Now that you are here, however, there is something I am curious about. Torvi and I were speaking of this the other day. I have never seen a Saxon woman fight.”

He nearly laughs at the thought. “No, of course they do not fight. A good Christian woman would never do such a thing.”

“A good Viking woman might,” Lagertha says playfully. “Not all of our men and women are warriors, but if a woman has the desire and the will to seek glory in battle, why shouldn’t she? Or at least, should she not be able to defend herself and her household?”

“No Saxon woman’s husband would allow such a thing. It would be unnatural,” Heahmund says firmly as he slices his way through the barley. “‘And to the woman Eve, the Lord God said: I will multiply thy sorrows, and thy conceptions: in sorrow shalt thou bring forth children, and thou shalt be under thy husband's power, and he shall have dominion over thee,’” he quotes.  

Lagertha seems distinctly unimpressed by Heahmund’s biblical knowledge. She straightens up and crosses her arms. “That has nothing to do with why women should or should not fight. You have seen our shield maidens on the battlefield; are they not as fierce as the men?”

“They may be fierce, but women are the weaker sex, and not suited to battle.”

“That is your belief.”

“It is not a belief,” Heahmund says. “Women are not as strong as men.”

Lagertha raises her eyebrows. “Is that so?” She points her scythe at him and grins. “Well, then, I should teach you a lesson. Take up your sword, my priest, because today you shall learn.”

There is no way he can turn down a challenge like that. It had appalled him when he had first discovered that among the heathens, women went to war alongside men. He would not admit it, but he found them fascinating; they were so unlike any Saxon woman he had ever known. The sight of Lagertha on the battlefield had transfixed him—bewitched him, perhaps, but he finds he does not mind terribly. Even now, he remains under her spell. “And what shall be my reward, if I win?”

She gives him a sly look and runs her fingers along her collarbone, drawing his eyes to her breasts. “More of what you call sin, perhaps.”

He shakes his head. “Not good enough. I would have you anyway.”

“Only if I wished you to.” She drops her hand. “Name your price, then.”

“If I win, you admit you are wrong, and that men are better warriors than women.”

“Very well,” she nods. “But if you lose, my priest, you will finish harvesting the barley on your own.”

“I accept your terms.” Heahmund has no intention of losing—not to her, not to anybody. He sets aside the scythe, takes his sword, and follows her out of the settlement to a grassy field. When they find a suitable place, Lagertha gives him a radiant smile. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him passionately, and he knows she _will_ have him later, oh yes.

“Defend yourself, if you can,” she whispers in his ear, and his mouth goes dry with anticipation. She takes a few steps back and unsheathes her blade. The wind dies down and for a moment, everything is perfectly still.

Without warning, Lagertha lets out a blood-curdling yell and charges at Heahmund, immediately putting him on the defense. He meets her blade with his, and her first blow sends a jolt down his arm. He’s always relished this; the sound of metal against metal, the sudden rush of energy coursing through his veins, the glory of the hunt.

Heahmund lets Lagertha drive him back at first. She is aggressive and fast, and he understands that her strategy is to overwhelm her opponent in the initial pass. He parries her blows and bides his time, waiting for her to tire or make a mistake. When she finally slips up and leaves herself open, he takes advantage and goes on the offensive, pushing her back across the uneven terrain until she stumbles. Before she can recover, he is on top of her. He pins down her sword arm and sets the flat of his blade against her shoulder. “Do you concede?”

She closes her eyes, breathing hard. “No.” She throws a fistful of dirt in his face with her free hand and drives her knee into a particularly sensitive area. When he gasps and loosens his grip, she smacks the sword out of his hand, shoves him onto his back, and places the edge of her sword at his neck before he can even brush the dirt out of his eyes.

“Do _you_ concede?” she asks.

“I do,” Heahmund sputters, and Lagertha steps back and lowers her sword. He sits up rather painfully and rubs at his eyes. “But that was unfair.”

“I thought you said you admired my technique.” Her eyes are bright with mischief as she gives him a hand up. “Have you had enough, my priest? Are you ready to finish the harvest? Or shall I defeat you a second time?”

He’s not about to let her have the last word. “Let’s go again.”

**

Heahmund thinks Ivar is up to something. To be sure, Ivar is always up to something, but more so than usual this morning, when he decides that all the warriors should go out to the woods to spar. “I will give a ship to any man who can best the Christian,” he declares, glancing over his shoulder at Heahmund with a sly grin, and all the bishop can do is incline his head slightly and wonder what _his_ reward will be if no one can beat him.

However, he isn’t about to turn down an opportunity to knock a bunch of heathens into the dirt, and he spends the next several hours doing exactly that. They come at him with axes and swords, alone and in pairs, and although many are experienced and formidable warriors, he nevertheless dispatches all of them. When he finally sends his last opponent sprawling, he pauses to catch his breath and murmur a quick prayer of thanks.  

“My turn.” Ivar suddenly speaks up from his perch on top of a boulder and holds out a hand for his sword. He laughs at Heahmund’s hesitation. “What, are you afraid to fight me? A great warrior like yourself?” He mockingly drags out the words _great warrior_. “Surely I’m no match for you.”

Heahmund smiles at that and gives a slight bow before raising his own sword. He’s never seen Ivar fight with a sword, nor has he ever sparred with a seated, stationary opponent, so he approaches with more caution than usual. The Northmen have stopped their joking and watch intently as Heahmund moves in.

Ivar strikes first. He is much less tired than Heahmund and his reflexes are quick. With the first few passes, Heahmund can tell it will not be easy to find a way past Ivar’s defenses. “Come now, your Grace, surely you can do better than that,” Ivar taunts, distracting Heahmund enough that he just barely avoids a blow to the shoulder by dancing to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Ivar putting his left hand on the rock to steady himself, and he sees how he can win.

Heahmund purposefully leaves himself open as he moves in for his next attack, and steps back quickly when Ivar lunges for the opening. As he expects, Ivar overcompensates and loses his balance. Heahmund knocks the sword from his hand and Ivar topples sideways off the boulder and lands on his side with a sharp cry. He presses the flat edge of his blade against Ivar’s chest.

Suddenly, every sword and arrow is pointed in Heahmund’s direction. Ivar waves them off lazily, and the Northmen back away. Heahmund lowers his sword, still panting, while Ivar adjusts his legs with a grimace and sits up. “That was well done, priest,” he says with a glint in his eye. “I expect nothing less.”

He nods. Something about the look on Ivar’s face makes him suspect that this isn’t over, but nothing more is said, and he spends the remainder of the afternoon sparring with the other Northmen and beating them one by one. In the end, nobody can lay claim to the ship that Ivar promised. He returns to the great hall deeply satisfied and drenched in sweat. He devours an entire chicken and half a loaf of bread by himself while the Northmen crowd around him and jest and Ivar and Hvitserk offer up toasts. He feels himself start to relax ever so slightly.

Heahmund knows better than to let his guard down around Ivar. He knows better.

But he does it anyway. He stays up drinking with Hvitserk and Ivar long after the rest of the Northmen have left for the night. Ivar is in good spirits and tipsier than Heahmund has seen him, recounting stories with Hvitserk about people and events that mean nothing to the bishop. The brothers laugh so hard they nearly cry, until finally Hvitserk stretches out on the floor and dozes off, snoring quietly. Ivar slaps his face lightly. “Hvitserk. Wake up.” When he fails to rouse his brother, he shrugs and crawls over to join Heahmund.

Heahmund is completely unprepared when Ivar suddenly yanks the stool out from under him and lunges at him with his knife already out. He manages to land a glancing blow to the side of Ivar’s head, but Ivar already has the upper hand. He drives his fist into Heahmund’s stomach and is on top of him with a knife at his throat before Heahmund can even catch his breath.

“I don’t play fair, your Grace,” Ivar purrs in his ear, all signs of drunkenness gone. He presses the knife into Heahmund’s neck just enough to draw blood. Then he sheathes the knife, ruffles Heahmund’s hair affectionately, and wipes the blood away with his finger. “You would do well to remember that.”

Heahmund swiftly hooks his leg around one of Ivar’s and flips him over, pinning down his wrists. “And you would do well to remember that I can choose to leave here and not return.”

For a moment, Ivar looks almost startled. “I know,” he says quietly. Then he shoves Heahmund off him and lies back, staring at the ceiling. “I have made you angry with me.” It is as close to an apology as he will get; to ask for forgiveness is a foreign concept to the Northmen.

Heahmund sighs. Despite all of Ivar’s provocations, he can rarely be upset with him for too long. “I came back to Kattegat out of my own free will, but I am not your servant or your prisoner. If we continue to do…this,” whatever _this_ is; sometimes he hardly knows, “we will do it as equals, or not at all. That is my condition.”

Ivar reaches out and touches his shoulder, letting his hand linger for a moment. “Agreed.” He sits up with a smile. “I am not finished with you, Heahmund. I demand a rematch.”

“Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me, I'm just over here trying to squeeze as much joy as I can from this AU before 5b comes along to decisively wreck it...

**Author's Note:**

> Bjorn gets the best line, obviously. Second best line: "Hvitserk is smarter than I thought," because it's just so rude.
> 
> I also really like the idea of Ivar and Hvitserk trying to figure out their Viking budget. This is why you need Ubbe, guys!


End file.
